


Mirror, rorriM

by Noscere



Series: Fourth wall? *tick* *tick* *tick* BOOM! What wall? [2]
Category: Dead Rising, XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, On the Run, Parallels, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 21:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9091702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noscere/pseuds/Noscere
Summary: Out of all the people he could have met out in the ruins, his ADVENT doppelganger was not the person Bradford was expecting.





	

Bradford takes a deep breath. The air stinks of copper and a sickly sweetness, the telltale scent of blood. Damn it. He had such high hopes for Durango. The largest Resistance Haven in the West, and it showed: it was the only Resistance Haven that regained some pre-war society. Durango had two elementary schools, hosted a bustling restaurant trade with excellent beer and decent burgers (as long as you didn’t ask where the meat came from), boasted a trade hub where ADVENT refugees bartered services for goods, and kept a small militia of three-hundred armed men and women operating out of the ruins of City Hall. It would have been a good place to set up a Resistance Cell, but there were too many children around. If Bradford brought ADVENT’s attention onto this microcosm… well, he hated ADVENT and wanted them gone, but not at the cost of innocent lives. 

Too late for that now.

He keeps breathing: in, out, quieting his breaths in a scarf snagged from the ruined trade hub. No distinctive clicks of a Chryssalid’s chitinous legs against the pavement; no pained, ragged moans and shuffling steps of a zombie; and sadly, no gunfire or screams of still living civilians. The coast is clear, and deathly so.

XCOM’s former Central Officer checks the room. No team to help him clear it out, but five years on the run have honed him in a way the Army never could.

His flashlight dips over the room. Furniture scattered in a hasty barricade, bloodstains black on the wall holding a massive window, curtains fluttering in a slight breeze.

Empty. The survivors were probably dragged out the window.

Jagged shards of glass stick up from the window like broken teeth. The wind carries moans of the undead on its breath. They’re close, within a kilometer’s radius, a big group of at least thirty. He hopes there are no child zombies, but it seems the Chryssalids kill the younger humans on impact. Too squishy to survive a direct hit, too small to nurse the growing parasite. He’s not sure whether that’s a mercy or a damnation.

There’s a change in the wind: something living, something warm, _something human._ Bradford stiffens. It’s not entirely human – there’s a metallic sweetness that comes with ADVENT armor and ADVENT convoys. But the air is devoid of Troopers jabbering away like jays around a bird feeder.

 

Bradford flips through the possibilities as he slinks through the first floor of abandoned house. ADVENT had clean up crews – fully human, too – to clean up the radioactive wasteland formerly known as Florida. No one was quite sure who set off the bomb: ADVENT of course blamed XCOM, but the leading theory around the Resistance was a false-flag operation. The administration had touted its generosity and self-sacrifice in aiding the survivors. More civilians flocked to the city centers. Bradford could hardly blame them, when news of zombie outbreaks in non-ADVENT cities popped up in the pipeline. As far as Bradford knew, ADVENT didn’t have an anti-zombie program beyond burn-and-salt-the-Earth-in-case-Chryssalids-are-hiding-in-cows-again.

There’s the sound of footsteps coming up the house now: measured and steady bootsteps, not the sloppy shuffle of zombies.

Bradford looks around the hallway. Shit. The closest exit to the street leads straight into a horde of zombies, some of them retching ominously. Bradford is not equipped at all to deal with a zerg rush charging 30 miles an hour with the intention of goring him them throat-fucking him.

Well, no, that was the old version of zombies. There was a new version that spawned duck-sized Chryssalids that teabagged your chest as they rearranged your innards to lay their eggs. It would be hilarious if the victim weren’t also fully conscious until the Chryssalids hatched. And then there was the version that made tiny Chryssalids that flew around like wasps, looking for their newest victim. The good Doctor wasn't around to elaborate, but Bradford's nightmares were haunted by brainworms and wasps flying out of every human orifice possible. ADVENT had probably spawned the little monstrosities, and if they did, they had too much damn time on their hands.

Bradford shakes himself. It hsd been three days since he last ate, and it is beginning to show.

_I’ll crawl past the market district on my way out_ , Bradford plans. _I’m a bit heavy for parkour, but the houses are fairly close together. These zombies can’t climb. I’ll move by the roofs… better not slip and break my back._

Screams – guttural and harsh, more wounded animal than human – ring out. Fire crackles. Metal hits the pavement. The hiss of freezing agents fill the air, then ice shatters over and over again, masking the sick snap of frozen flesh.

“Ewwwww!” a distinctly male and human voice screams. “Who _am_ I?”

 

The footsteps start up again. Bradford curses and heads up the stairs. Whoever that was is definitely not Resistance. Nobody, even in the trade hub, has the materials to instantly freeze flesh.

It’s a challenge to mask his footsteps against the wooden stairs and climb as quickly as he can, but Bradford does his best. That’s no consolation, as the other set of footsteps grows louder. Whoever’s following is hot on his tail.

The former Central Officer runs through possible tactics in his head. It’s got to be a fairly competent ADVENT grunt. That’s all the worse for him. There’s no way someone good enough to kill an entire horde of zombies – and as he passes by a window, he confirms the group outside is now charcoal or shattered ice – will ignore Enemy Number One.

“I’m gonna be fucking sick,” the man continues.

Well… maybe Bradford will get lucky.

 

The windows on the second floor are not yet broken. There’s three rooms here: a bathroom, a bedroom, and a child’s playroom. Bradford charges into the bedroom – the windows are biggest here. He begins to haul the windows open. They jam on his first attempt – someone lodged a cut up hockey stick into the tracks to prevent them opening more than an inch. Bradford tosses the stick away. He slides the window open – the footsteps are even louder – he climbs up onto the ledge –

“Hey! No need to jump!” A man’s voice says. “You’re not infected, are you?”

“Not going to stay long enough to let that happen,” Bradford mutters. The gutters of this house look rickety, and Bradford is not exactly sturdy enough to waltz away from a two-story jump. This could be the end. He promised the Commander he would continue the fight, but getting lynched won’t help the Resistance. 

“Hey, come down from there,” the man continues. Out of the corner of his eyes, Bradford catches sight of a weapon that appears to be the lovechild between a fire-extinguisher and a megaphone. ADVENT must be hurting for funds if they’re fielding these monstrosities. “The ZDC’s here to evacuate all civilians. We’ve still got survivors out there. You could help out, that gun looks hefty – hey, you don’t need to jump. There’s places out there that aren’t drowning in zombies. There’s still hope.”

Bradford bites back a bitter laugh and readies himself. He’ll have to grab onto the shingles if the gutters give way.

“I promise. Look at me,” the stranger says, and there’s enough honesty in his voice that Bradford turns.

 

It’s like looking into a mirror: straight nose, prominent brow permanently furrowed by stress, long hollow cheeks with a hint of stubble, closely cropped dark hair greying at the hairline. Bradford isn’t sure whether to be bewildered or depressed that there’s a copycat stranger running around. Or maybe Bradford is just a generic model for “white male, age 40, somewhat used and battered. Free to a good home.”

 

“All right, come out to the light where I can see you. Just let me check you haven’t been bitten,” the stranger says. A red light pulses in his neck. “We can help you if you have. Hands above your head, protocol says that’s the best way to check. You can keep a grip on that gun of yours.”

“Yeah, and the next thing I know, you’ll blow up,” Bradford says, motioning at the blipping light.

The stranger chuckles and touches the light. “It keeps me safe. A dose of Zombrex every 12 hours. Got bitten three years ago, but I’m still kicking.”

_Zombrex. So ADVENT’s got an even better handle on the cities. They could set off outbreaks anywhere they wanted. I've got to tell the Resistance._

Bradford narrows his eyes, but he advances one foot at a time, keeping his hands locked behind his head. Zombies lost most of the coordination once the Chryssalid larvae was embedded in their body, including the ability to raise their arms above their heads.

“There, happy now?” Bradford snarls. The stranger doesn’t wear ADVENT colors, but he reeks of their influence: the plates on his bulletproof vest are blocky like an ADVENT trooper’s, and his boots look like they were ripped straight from an ADVENT Captain’s body then painted dark blue.

“Sure am. I’m Officer Brad Park of the ZDC.”

Jesus Christ. Of all the people to meet in the semi-apocalypse, it was someone who shared a similar name?

Bradford side-eyes the stranger. “Didn’t catch that.”

“Brad Park of the Zombie Defense Center,” the officer replies. “You know. The guys who chase down zombies before they can infect the city centers?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of them,” Bradford lies as he files the information away. “I'm going now. Rather not become zombie lunch.”

“You can always come with the ZDC convoy to the Denver city center,” Park says proudly. “We’ve fortified it and all. It’s the safest place in all of Colorado. We can keep you safe behind those walls.”

Jesus Christ, Park sounds like Bradford did when he was a boot back in the army.

He’s apparently as dumb as boot-Bradford was too, if the ZDC agent doesn’t recognize ADVENT’s most wanted criminal.

(Or loyal as hell, but Bradford doesn't want to consider the possibility that a good man is following ADVENT because he  _wants_ to.) 

“I’ll stick it out on my own,” Bradford says. “Got family in the area. I want to make sure they’re safe before I head out to the city.”

“You’d be safer with the convoy.” Park looks at his watch. “Time’s wasting," he says over his radio. "Let’s get moving. Keyes unit, move to clear out the school.”

Bradford’s heart aches at the familiarity. Park doesn’t seem to be a central officer, but he barks out orders like Bradford once did to XCOM’s soldiers. And here they stand: one happily on ADVENT’s payroll, one struggling to keep the Resistance together.

The former Central Officer looks at his mirror, and wonders what could have been.

 

“You said you could use a gun,” Bradford says. “I’ve been through this rodeo before. I’ll help you handle the infestation. I can’t rest until I know my family’s fate. They were by the Trade Hub – I know this place well, I can search there alone.” 

“Sure.” Park, apparently satisfied, radios his unit that he’s found a survivor who’s willing to clear out the market area. He gestures for Bradford to follow. “Any chance we’re related?” he asks. “You kinda look like someone I know…”

“Depends. Where did you grow up?”

“Los Perdidos, born and raised,” Park answers confidently. He hoists his weapon into his arms. “Went to New York to see my aunt, got bit by one of those zombies, and now I’m chipped. Now ADVENT ships me around whenever there’s an outbreak.”

So now Chryssalids can spread by saliva. Wonderful. ADVENT had created a little pet shop of horrors.

On that thought, Bradford re-judges the ZDC agent’s armor. It won’t be enough to save the man if a Chryssalid comes after him. Maybe ADVENT coats their agents’ armor in anti-Chryssalid pheromones? That could be useful for the Resistance to try.

“You?” Park asks as they enter the street.

Bradford brings up his gun and turns side to side, ready for any zombie or Chryssalid. “Parents were drifters,” he lies, longingly thinking of the Kansan homestead that fried under the First Invasion. “Never really grew up anywhere.”

“Ah, there’s a home for everyone in the city centers,” Park says sagely. “Everyone gets chipped. It’s the law, and it keeps everyone safe.”

…Somehow, this man is bootier than Bradford ever could have been. Bradford’s sober enough to keep a biting retort off his tongue.

“Terrible outbreaks, back in Los Angeles and Fortune City,” Park says, shaking his head. “Hundreds of people dead. They blamed this guy called Chuck Greene, but apparently it was some XCOM agent. Those deaths could have been prevented! All those lives lost. They would have been safe in the Centers. There’s always cameras and troopers ready to serve the American people there.”

He stays quiet, though everything in his body screams to correct this naïve mirror of a man. Better to stay quiet. He’ll serve XCOM better if he’s not in a kangaroo trial being lectured by the ADVENT Speaker.

“Speaking of which, I never got your name.”

“Ford Johnson,” Bradford says. He internally winces. What a bland, non-descript name that’s way too close to his real one. “If you see a girl in an orange scarf running around with a robot toy, the little brat’s mine.”

He wonders how Shen and little Shen are surviving in this hellscape of a world.

“Will do, sir.” Park’s head snaps to attention. The wind brings the shambles and moans of newly infected humans. “Run! I’ve got my team, you go find your kid!”

Bradford seizes his opportunity and sprints for the market district. He seizes an abandoned loaf of bread – slightly trampled, but no mold within the thin plastic bag – a few oranges, and a bottle of beer. The zombies chase after them, but in his panic, he is untouchable.

 

The former Central Officer slinks out of town into the vast fields surrounding Durango, Colorado while the sun is high in the sky. He can hear the report of guns and screams of dying zombies as his mirror handles the infestation.

He remembers a time when it would have been his men – XCOM men and women, brave and free and loyal – in Brad Park’s position.

_Man the resistance,_ the Commander had ordered, _round up those who still want to fight and strike back at the aliens and their lies. Keep the civilians safe. They don't deserve to live in fear under the aliens' boots._

Good soldiers. Just following orders like he is.

Bradford adjusts his rations for the next week on his shoulder, and walks off.

 

**Author's Note:**

> With better graphics, I swear Bradford and Brad Park would look nearly identical. The difference starts showing up during XCOM 2 and Dead Rising 4: Bradford undergoes a second puberty, and uh… age is not half as kind to Brad Park.


End file.
